Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
Callaway
Vesper’s asleep.
She crashed after dinner like her body finally cashed the check her nerves have been writing all day, curling into the smallest version of herself on the oversized couch like she’s trying to take up as little space as possible.
Which is ridiculous, because Vesper doesn’t know how to be small.
She fills rooms, conversations, and every pause with some random fact she learned while filming in places I have to Google just to confirm they’re real.
Half the time she says we should go there in the off-season—for the experience—and I want to say yes.
I want to book the flights and make it happen, because it’s Vesper and she makes the world feel bigger.
But there are things you don’t do when you’re trying not to want more. When life is impossible because you broke every rule. I didn’t just fall in love with the same girl my best friend wanted.
I fell in love with him too.
Love becomes lust, then need, then desire—and then you fuck up the entire dynamic. Welcome to my shitty love life, a story where the newest plot twist is that she’s expecting, and the ex-best friend and I can’t agree on shit. Fucking lovely, isn’t it?
And now, years later, we’re pretending we can untangle what’s left of us, like this isn’t a tragedy wrapped in a second chance.
There are things you try to forget when you can’t have it all.
Things you definitely shouldn’t remember . . .
But I do. In the quiet moments—those rare seconds when the world goes still. I still remember the way he tasted.
The way he trembled when I pushed into him the first time, body clenched, hands in my hair, begging without words. I remember how wet her mouth was when she kissed me right after kissing him.
How full we felt, the three of us—her between us, my hand on his jaw, his lips on her skin. My cock still slick from her when he finally let me fuck him.
Everything is ruined. We’re stuck in this almost-life. Trying to act like grown men. Like we can show up for her and this baby and pretend we didn’t already burn the bridge we’re supposed to walk together.
A love story rewritten too many times.
A rivalry built on denial.
A family we’re still too afraid to believe in.
Loving each other like we never stopped.
It’s fucked.
Not sure what to do, but honestly, I’d crawl through glass just to have one more night of his breath on my neck and her nails in my back, just to feel us all give in at the same time.
I want them both.
Still. Always.
And I don’t know how to stop wanting what the world was never going to let me keep.
I should probably focus only on Vesper and try to forget the other one exists. Try to . . . what? Pretend I don’t love him? I tried for years. But now we’re so close again that I realize that I never stopped.
I fucking love him.
Still want him, need him—can’t live without him, just as it’s almost impossible to live without Vesper.
Who is trying her best to figure out her new life.
Today left her subdued, which is rare for her. It’s like someone turned the volume down on the pinball machine in her head. She joked, she teased, she threatened to haunt us, but the appointment took something out of her. The scan. The heartbeat. The way the room went quiet when it became real.
She’ll pretend it doen’t rattle her.
She didn’t fool me for a second.
Now, I sit in the chair by the couch with my e-reader open, ten minutes deep into choosing between Pregnancy for Today’s Parent and What Not to Expect While You’re Pregos. Yes, not the best title but it had 4.5 star reviews. That’s good, right?
Listen, neither screams thrilling, but I’m desperate enough to read a manual on paint drying if it means I can help her.
I shouldn’t be doing this.
Not technically.
This isn’t my baby.
Except that’s a lie, isn’t it?
Because she’s always been mine in some way, long before she knew it. Long before I admitted it. Long before I tried to be noble and give her space.
I sigh and tap the screen. The book opens.
Week 8: The Early Stages.
Your baby is now about the size of a kidney bean.
I pause and glance at Vesper.
A kidney bean.
A whole-ass bean.
Inside her. The thought of her growing a life is still mind-blowing. I shake my head and keep reading.
At this stage, many mothers experience nausea, exhaustion, and heightened sensitivity to smell.
That explains the food truck.
Vesper loves cupcakes in a way that’s borderline religious. Today we walked past one and she went a little green, then sped up like if she moved fast enough she could outrun her own stomach.
And I hate that because she’s trying not to occupy more space than she believes she deserves. Not sure if I can make her understand that she fills my entire existence. Probably Monty’s too.
“What are you doing?” Monty asks, voice low.
He’s just stepped out of his room, hair damp and curling at the ends, a towel draped low around his neck like he doesn’t realize how fuckable he looks.
That black shirt clings across his chest, damp at the edges.
His skin gleams, darker from the heat, the flush of steam rising up his throat like it means something.
Like maybe he touched himself in the shower.
Or maybe he thought about me doing it for him.
My brain’s already stripping him down again—remembering the slope of his back, the way water beaded along the ridge of his spine before I bent him over the counter that last summer.
I want to drop to my knees and taste the sweat still clinging to his skin.
I want to push my fingers past the elastic of his waistband and find out just how hard he gets from tension he likes to ignore.
I want to fuck him until he lets himself fall apart without shame.
Of course, I don’t. I clear my throat and whisper, “Reading.” Pointing at Ves who’s sleeping and hoping he keeps his voice low. “Pregnancy for Today’s Parent. Do you know that ‘foods that were once favorites may become intolerable, and certain smells can trigger strong nausea?’”
Monty’s gaze flicks to the screen, then to Vesper. “You’re reading because of her.”
“Obviously.” I roll my eyes like I’m not sitting here like a man trying to learn how to keep a woman from breaking apart.
He watches her for a moment, then nods, as if understanding what’s happening. “Maybe that’s why Benji’s dinner ended up being . . .” He searches for the word like it offends him.
“Meh,” I supply.
Monty’s mouth tightens. “Yeah. That.”
“She picked at the pasta,” I say quietly, remembering. “Ate the plainest bites. Avoided anything with too much sauce like it was trying to murder her.” I glance back at the e-reader. “Maybe there’s something useful in here.”
Monty scoffs. Not at the book—at me. At the fact that I’m sitting here doing research like a man who plans to be in this. He glares as if I’m wasting my time.
“You’re not planning to get involved, then?” I ask.
His expression hardens into a scowl.
Honestly, I want to push him—just to figure out what his fucking problem is. I don’t.
“Do whatever you want, but—”
“I’m taking a parenting class online,” he cuts in. “I registered the three of us earlier today.”
For a second, I hate him.
Not because it’s a bad idea. Because he did it first. Because he said “the three of us” like it’s a fact and not a war zone.
Because Monty isn’t someone who shares space easily—he keeps his world tight, controlled, built for one—and yet he seems to want to claim us anyway.
I lift my brows. “A parenting class?”
Monty’s stare is hard. “Yes.”
“Wow,” I whisper, biting back a grin. “Look at you, being domestic.”
He scowls like “domestic” is an insult. “Don’t you fucking start.”
“Books are also helpful,” I say, because I refuse to let him win this round.
“Fine.” He gestures at my e-reader. “I’ll read whatever she thinks will benefit her and the baby.”
Something in my chest loosens at that. Not relief exactly. More like recognition.
He’s in this. He’s terrified. He’s doing it anyway.
I skim past the nausea section and land on a list of foods that are supposed to be easier to keep down. Bland stuff. Rice. Crackers. Bananas. An aggressive endorsement for ginger.
I text Benji new instructions.
My phone buzzes immediately.
Benji: Bland? She’s pregnant, not sick.
Me: That’s what the book says.
Benji: I’m figuring out her tastebuds. You can’t rush art.
Me: You’re calling food art?
Benji: My cooking is art. She’ll be eating gourmet meals by next week and she won’t be puking it up. As long as she stops complaining—of course.
I glance at Vesper.
She shifts in her sleep, fingers curling into the couch cushion like she’s holding onto something even in her dreams. She burrows deeper, breathing slow, a faint crease between her brows like her brain refuses to clock out.
My heart does that stupid thing again—softening.
I should stop watching her like a lovesick idiot.
I don’t—mostly, I can’t. It’s impossible when I have her so close.
I go back to the book.
Emotional Changes and Mental Health.
Pregnancy can bring significant emotional changes due to hormonal shifts. Mothers experience heightened anxiety, mood swings, and moments of doubt about their readiness for parenthood.
I stop.
Because Vesper would rather sprint across a field of Legos barefoot than admit she’s scared.
Today, when she heard the heartbeat, her mouth opened like a joke was ready.
And then she didn’t joke.
She listened and cried. At least she let us fuss over her while it was happening.
My thumb hovers over the next section.
How Partners Can Be Supportive During Pregnancy.
Partner.
I’m not her partner. Not exactly.
But I’m not nothing either. And I’m tired of living in the in-between like that’s safe.
I tap it.
Be present. Attend appointments. Listen. Reassure her she is not alone.